Ms Sherlock Holmes
by ratherbereading28
Summary: John Watson meets Sherlock Holmes and the detective is not at all what he expected.
1. Flatmates

The microbes wriggled along the slide, and Sherlock grinned wolfishly into her microscope. It never disappointed her. Stashing the information securely in her mind palace, she selected her next slide and clipped it into the microscope; she was interrupted by the always-fluttering Molly,

"Hi, um, Sherlock, someone is here to see you."

_Men, judging by her expression. She will never give up on me. _

On cue, Mike Stamford strode through the lab doors with another man in tow. The second man was shorter, compact, with sandy hair and weathered skin. _Military, injured in battle, limp-probably psychosomatic, old shoulder wound, tanned skin means Middle East._

"Iraq or Afghanistan?" The veteran stared at her, a mixture of anger and awe flickering across his features,

"I'm sorry, what did you say to me?"

"I _said _Iraq or Afghanistan?"

Mike Stamford interrupted, somewhat anxious, "Sherl," she growled at the nickname but he continued, "this is Dr. John Watson. Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, retired now. He's a friend from uni. He was telling me today about his dismal flat and I remembered that you wanted someone to split rent."

The proposal hung in the air, and John broke the silence, "Mike, you didn't mention Sherlock Holmes was a woman. I wasn't expecting…I don't know that I should…"

"Do you have a problem with women, Dr. Watson?" Her tone was icy, her blue eyes narrowed to slits as she confronted him. Sherlock had encountered many men like this, Mike Stamford being one of them. They all seemed to think that she was a slave to hormones and dreams of babies. The doctor stared at her, startled, and responded immediately.

"Not at all, but people will talk."

"Ah, Dr. Watson, people do little else. The address is 221 Baker Street. Meet me there this evening and I will show you the flat. There are stairs, but I am certain you will be able to handle them as your limp _is _psychosomatic which I'm sure your therapist has told you. I'd fire her though, she's an idiot." Molly, Mike, and John all gaped at her as she turned back to her microscope and settled another slide onto the tray.

"Afghanistan, by the way." And at that the doctor was gone. Sherlock smiled again into her microscope, _He__'__ll be there. He won__'__t be able to stay away. _


	2. Murder

As expected, John Watson was waiting on her doorstep when she returned from St. Bart's that evening. Without a word she opened the door and whirled up the stairs to her flat, 221B, while John followed heavily behind her. Unwilling to wait, she launched into a tour of the flat and was moving into the kitchen when John finally reached the sitting room.

"Bloody hell, slow down would you? Wounded soldier, remember?"

"You were a doctor."

"There were bad days." His voice was grim but Sherlock's lips twitched and she shot him a glance. John Watson was more fun than she had expected, and she decided she could wait for his lungs to catch up. _He has asthma. _She was dismayed; John wouldn't be able to keep up with her if he had that much trouble with seventeen stairs.

The tour of the flat was brief, but John was sold. Sherlock had known it since he whispered "Afghanistan" back in the lab. Dr. Watson's only problem with women was his inability to resist them, especially beautiful ones.

"When would you like to move in?" she fixed her eyes on John Watson as his mouth dropped open and he stuttered,

"M-ms. Holmes, I've not mentioned anything about moving in. I don't even know you. You could be a psychopath!"

"Dr. Watson, please. I'm a high-functioning sociopath, do your research. I know all about _you, _but if you must go through the motions then come with me." Sherlock swept out of the flat again, and after a moment of stunned stillness, John leapt after her.

He caught up to her as the cab pulled up to the curb. Opening the door, she gestured to him, "After you."

"What? No, no, ladies first."

"Oh please, don't be chivalrous Dr. Watson. Besides, I'm not a "Lady," that would be my mother. _I _am a _woman._"

Not sure how to respond to that, John slid into the proffered cab and settled himself against the opposite window. Sherlock Holmes was not at all what he had bargained for.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" The question fell from his lips before he could control it and he looked at the woman cautiously. She was smirking. _God she is stunning, _and then another realization, _and she knows it. Bloody hell_.

"John…can I call you John?" he nodded and she went on, "Your haircut and stance gave away your military background. Your skin tells me that you spent a considerable amount of time in harsh sun and arid climate. So, military, injured, suntan: Middle East. Only active conflicts at the moment are in Afghanistan and Iraq. Process of elimination."

He had already lost count of how many times this woman had made his jaw drop.

"….that's…"

"Disturbing? Rude? Freakish?"

"Brilliant. I was going to say brilliant." He met her gaze steadily and thought there was surprise in those ice-blue eyes. The cab came to a halt and Sherlock clambered out, once again holding the door for the doctor. A neon sign blinked in front of them, "Angelo's" it said. They were at a restaurant, greeted enthusiastically by Angelo himself,

"Ahh! Sherlock! It has been so long, too long since we have seen you! Please, please, sit!" Their host fussed over them and led them to a small table by the window. Turning to John he whispered conspiratorially, "Anything you want, on the house. I owe this woman everything. Any date of hers eats for free."

"Oh, no. No, this isn't a date. We're…" John was at a loss for what they were. He was sure that saying they were flatmates would not help. Sherlock interrupted, "Angelo, we are not a couple. This is Dr. John Watson. He is a colleague."

_Colleague?_

Angelo winked knowingly and backed away, bowing and beaming at them, "I'll bring you two of the usual, Ms. Holmes. Only the best for you!"

"What was that about?"

"Oh, Angelo got himself in a bit of trouble a few years ago. Was convicted of a murder he didn't commit. I exonerated him by demonstrating that he was across town carrying out a robbery at the time of the killing. As for the romantic proposals, he is always laboring under the delusion that I need to find myself someone nice to settle down with. At this point, he doesn't care whether it's a man or a woman."

"So which is it then? Men or women? I don't mind, you know. Just trying to get to know you."

"John, I'm married to my work."

"Well that's a bloody cop out. You can tell me, you know. I'll find out anyway if we're to live together."

The doctor had a point. "If you must know, I have no preference. I have had both male and female partners, but neither sex nor love interest me. My only sexual activities have resulted as an expected reciprocation for one favor or another. I am, as previously stated, married to my work." Her response was firm and objective.

"Sherlock," John was embarrassed, "you didn't have to explain all of that. Those people before….I can understand why you aren't interested in anything but your work."

She turned her feline gaze on him, full of intense curiosity, "You…you think those people have affected me in some way?" she seemed confused, ignoring the arrival of their food, never shifting her gaze from him.

"Of course I do. They…they used you. It's only logical that these bad experiences would prevent you from desiring any further ones."

Looking troubled, she mused aloud "Only logical…hmmm…" The conversation dropped off as she turned her attention to her food and John did the same. It was only when he finished that he noticed she was barely eating. A stab of guilty twisted his gut, "Sherlock, I'm sorry that I upset you. Please, eat something. I shouldn't have said anything earlier, that's not my business."

She looked across at him and searched his face for a moment before smirking again.

"John, you can hardly think I would be upset at what you observed. It was merely the truth. I have heard it before, though not in such a kind manner. I was simply reflecting on the case. As for the food, I rarely eat. I find it slows me down. I can't waste the energy on digestion when I'm working." Noticing his empty plate, she stood abruptly and left. Knowing she would leave him behind without a second thought, John hurried after her and found himself again being offered a cab. Grateful that she had waited, he jumped in without argument and they rode back to Baker Street in silence. It was only after he had bounded up the stairs to 221 B that he realized something; he had left his cane at the restaurant.

He wasn't limping at all.

_What the hell is wrong with me?_

"Nothing, Dr. Watson. I told you, the limp was psychosomatic. You experienced a traumatic event separate from your shoulder wound but not unrelated. Probably an illness during your treatment. They told you that you would never fully recover. Your therapist tells you the limp will go away when you find peace. She's a moron. I said it before and I'll say it again. _You, _Dr. Watson, do not need peace. Peace is what gave you that blasted limp. You need action, excitement, danger. You crave it."

The doctor's features assembled themselves into a glare that would have convinced anyone of his anger at these deductions. But Sherlock Holmes was not anyone. Checking her phone, she faced John as he stood in the doorway of the flat,

"I've a case. Detective Inspector Lestrade from the Yard contacted me. Fourth that has occurred in this fashion, they're calling it suicide. I'm calling it murder. Would you like to tag along?"

The anger disappeared and his response was immediate, "God yes."


	3. Strange Women

John officially moved into 221B Baker Street two days later, having been presented with a new round of questions (Do you like violin music? How do you sleep? Do you oppose scientific experiments?) and apparently passing. After packing a military-issue duffel bag with all his belongings, he relocated to the upstairs bedroom of Sherlock's flat. As he unpacked, his new flatmate filled the building with the sweet sorrow of the violin.

The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was overjoyed upon meeting John. "Ohhhh! Goodness! A live-in one! Sherlock has all types you see, but I worry about her. She certainly has brought home some baddies. But you! A doctor, and a military one at that! And so handsome! Oh, do make her happy!"

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock retired her violin sounding bored, "John and I are not dating. He is a colleague who happened to need a better place to stay, and I happened to need a roommate. Please, don't be tedious. And can we have some tea?"

"Not your housekeeper, dear!" But the woman bustled off to the kitchen with a wink at John and began making breakfast.

Sherlock inspected John as he moved about the flat, gauging his presence there; she liked it. He filled the space in just the right way. He was quiet, but unafraid to speak his mind. Small, but undoubtedly deadly. A healer and a killer. How curious. She liked him. She had never really liked anyone before, except Mrs. Hudson. John noticed her eyes on him and froze; she smiled at his stillness, such an obvious mark of military training. Few people could freeze that suddenly and completely.

"Why are you watching me like that?" He sounded nervous, defensive. _He__'__s self conscious about the limp. _

"Was I staring? I do apologize. I was visiting my mind palace. Thinking about the case."

"Oh. Right. Wait…mind what? _Mind palace?__"_ Humor flickered across his face and Sherlock rolled her eyes.

"Yes, mind palace. It's a mental creation where I store all types of information. In that way, I can place things there and keep them until they are of use to me. If something is not of use, I simply delete it."

John laughed at this, but it wasn't mocking or cruel, "You're bloody extraordinary, you know that? I think I'll pop off to the store while you're in that brilliant head of yours. I don't know about you, but severed feet are not my usual fare." Harmlessly amused, the doctor grabbed his coat and left the flat.

Curious.

He had called her brilliant when they first met. Now she was extraordinary? Not a freak? Not to be cursed and abused? Hm.

It seems the sturdy John Watson was not as ordinary as she had expected.

The sleek black car with the pretty brunette was not what John Watson had expected either. _So much for the groceries, _he took a seat next to the lovely woman, not sure whether he cared what awaited him at the end of the ride. Being a brave soldier, John was not easily intimidated. And being a typical person, John was not one to ignore a pretty face.

"So…I don't suppose you're going to tell me where we're going?"

The brunette barely glanced up from her Blackberry, "No." She sounded bored but amused. John tried several more attempts at conversation that were firmly shut down. He surrendered and stared out the window for the remainder of the ride. They pulled up outside an ornate building with a placard that read _Diogenes Club._ Without a word, his captor led him inside. The place smelled of tobacco and rich furnishings; John Watson was feeling distinctly out of place. He was escorted to an immense wooden door, inlaid with all manner of intricate carvings, and it swung inward to allow John admittance. The brunette turned on her heel and left him.

"Ah, Dr. Watson. Pleasure to meet you." A tall man in a very expensive suit was lounging in a very expensive chair, looking perfectly at ease.

"Erm, yes, and you are?"

"Oh just an…acquaintance…of Sherlock Holmes."

John tensed at the mention of his new mysterious flatmate, presuming that the detective's work had earned her more enemies than friends. He tensed and regarded the man in front of him with contempt.

"Ah good, I can see you're already attached. Amazing, really. She usually has the opposite effect on people."

"And who are you that knows so much about her?" It was rude, but John had always rather loathed obscenely wealthy people. Especially when they were invasive and condescending like this man.

"I am Mycroft. That is all you need to know. What _I _need to know is whether or not you will watch after Sherlock Holmes. Tell me of her movements. There is a considerable sum in it for you, which…" Mycroft inspected John's worn clothing with disgust, "you clearly need."

That was the last straw. "I don't want your bloody money, and I won't tell you one speck of information on Sherlock Holmes. I don't know her that well, but I know enough to know that I don't like you at all, and I trust you even less. So, whether or not you'll excuse me, I'm leaving and you can sod off." With that, John Watson stormed out of this preposterous building and fumed all the way to the grocery.


End file.
